


do something revolutionary

by silverstaineddreams



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Theres Ben/Caleb if u squint, fuck this is so long, it's basically a character study?? or just about abe's life, like if u ship tallster u'll see it, the boy is bi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverstaineddreams/pseuds/silverstaineddreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fighting for independence from a king, is no different than fighting for independence within yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do something revolutionary

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably rlly bad & historically inaccurate, & i apologize in advance

_Justice_.

Whether it had to do with religion or their own personal sense of self worth, human beings seemed to be vehemently opposed to being told what to do. It’s almost as if it went against something in their ethical code; which, in actuality, did not add up, especially when you pondered upon the fact that, all around them, people were constantly forced to bid other’s wills- children succumbed to parents, subordinates succumbed to their bosses, and so on and so forth.

_Liberty._

During the year 1750, Parliament had decided to place a tax on the iron that was imported into the colonies. The Americans, thinking themselves rather clever, decided to just create their own iron, so as not to pay the tax. Of course, this was exactly what Britain wanted. And that was the thing, wasn’t it? No matter how free you believed yourself to be, no matter how much basis on your personal independence your decisions seemed to have- at the end of the day, we all seem to succumb to _something_. It was just a matter of accepting it, or not.

_Freedom._

On October seventh of that same year, Margaret Woodhull, neé Smith, held her youngest son for the first time. Besides her was her husband, Richard, who’s face was contorted into a foreign smile, and her four year old son, Thomas.

The eldest of the children was blissfully unaware of the magnitude of the moment- he knew that he had a sibling on the way, but in his boyish manner, he had decided that the baby was only to be of use once they could be playmates. His parents didn’t have the heart to tell him that it would be a long while before his fantasies could mold into reality.

“What’s it’s name?” Thomas demanded, with an air of false authority that only a child could manage to pull off so innocently. Margaret, whose features had always been soft and pleasant, seemed to glow as she turned to her husband.

“Genesis 22.” Richard stated, inclining his head to peer down at the bundle in Maggie’s arms. “We’ll call him Abraham.”

“Abraham.” Thomas echoed, his infant tongue tripping over the syllables. He furrowed his brow. “Mother, do you love it more than me?”

Margaret gave her eldest son a warm look, extending a hand in his general direction, which Thomas accepted, gladly. He placed his head on her breast, watching as the swaddled baby slept soundly.

“Oh, Thomas,” Maggie’s melodious voice made the toddler’s eyes droop downwards.

“Abraham is going to require a lot of care, which means that he will receive a lot of your mother’s and mine’s attention.” Richard cut in, and whereas Margaret’s voice rendered him peaceful, Richard’s voice was the one that helped him stay alert. “This doesn’t mean that we care more for him than we do for you.”

“You’ll have to spend more time with him than with me?” Thomas’ bottom lip quivered, the prospect of no longer being the apple of his parents’ eyes too much for his young mind to bear.

“Yes,” Maggie placed a hand on her son’s head and began to stroke his hair, her soft hands maneuvering their way across the golden locks. “But just because we have someone else to share our love with, doesn’t mean we have to take any away from you.”

“Then where does all the extra love come from?” Thomas implored, sitting up, eyes wide with curiosity. Maggie let her hand fall down from his hair to his chest, resting her palm on his heart.

“From here. There’s always room in everybody for a little more love.”

Thomas, satisfied with the answer, gave one last look at the infant, ran a hand through his breeches in order to wipe them clean of dust, and sped off in the direction of the courtyard, leaving Richard and Margaret alone with a silence that spoke volumes.

A dry fit of coughs flooded the room, and succeeded in waking up the slumbering infant, who erupted into tears almost instantaneously. Big, wet drops of water cascaded down Abraham’s cheeks, and Maggie swiftly handed him to her husband, as she wheezed and clutched her throat, hand searching madly for the glass of water on her table.

“Margaret?” Richard leaned in as best as he could, his son’s wails proving to be quite the obstacle. Maggie granted him a weak smile, as she pushed the damp hair away from her face.

“Just a little tired.” She answered, and if her voice seemed to lack its musical quality, Richard said nothing about it.

No matter how in control you presumed to be, nobody was ever free from fate.

+

Whitehall, with its vast corridors and large terrain, had always been the best place for a young boy to grow up. A home in which he and his older brother had always been happy. When Thomas was ten, and he was five, they were more than content quarreling playfully in the burning sun, than they were with a load of words crammed on scarce paper.

Of course, Tommy had always been rather fond of books, his nimble mind seemed to hold a large capacity for analyzing texts, texts that were beyond the mental capacity of somebody so young. Sometimes, on those nights where the tumultuous gray sky impeded Abraham from falling asleep, he’d sneak into Thomas’ room, and the older boy would read to him and tell him tales of knights, princesses, and happy endings.

Still, despite his younger brother’s urges, Thomas never once spoke of their mother. Abraham didn’t know if it was because it was too painful, or if he had already forgotten, and he was too young to refrain himself from asking just how exactly it was that she had passed.

“She loved too much.” Tommy answered, quietly, caught in a memory. Abraham wished he could see what his brother saw, he wished he had known his mother. In Thomas’ fairy tales, wishes always came true, and maybe, just maybe, if Abraham wished hard enough, he might be able to see her again.

A child’s naïvety was a very cautious thing. If you entertained it too long, the ring of reality’s bells would be harsher still, and if you crushed it at once, then the child would grow up bitter.

Richard Woodhull was a very cautious man, when it came to status, when it came to society. And when it came to Tommy, he had always seemed to try his best, had always seemed to smile more and talk in softer tones. Tommy was his pride and joy, the eldest of his sons, the perfect mix of father and mother, intelligent, kind, and a pragmatic dreamer.

“ _He’s the future of the Woodhull name_ ,” Richard always seemed to tell others at societal events, with Tommy standing up straight, hair coiffed, chest puffed out proudly, a winning smile situated on his pale skin.

Abraham didn’t like this version of his brother. This was the Tommy who ignored him, this was the Tommy who told him to get his head out of the clouds, this was the Tommy who valued integrity above all, and this was the Tommy who was more _Richard_ , who was more _Thomas,_ than he was Tommy.

“ _And this one? As destined for greatness as his brother?”_

With a taut smile, and a glance at his youngest son, Richard always hesitated before answering:

_“He’s his mother.”_

That was how it went, every party was always the same, and the minutes seemed to drag by so monotonously that Abraham would have done anything if it meant he could leave.

One particular party, when he was seven, he began to question _why_ he couldn’t? Thomas and his father entertained the guests enough on their own- and, sure, they loved to coo at Abraham, found pleasure in coddling him and ruffling his hair, making some comment about how he much he’d grown; but did they care? At the end of the day, would they notice him missing?

He stood up from his chair, and slipped out of the room. Such a small act, such an enormous feeling. He breathed in and out, attempting to guide himself through the familiar passageways. His heart beat a tattoo against his chest, the only light in the dark house being the eery glow from the moon and the stars.

The oxygen escaped his small body all at once, when he heard footsteps behind him. Abraham twisted around, fear pumping through his veins. Before him stood not his father nor his brother, but a boy, slightly taller than him but probably around the same age, with eyes as blue as the cornflower fields adjacent to their garden.

“You’re not my father.” Abraham stated, his own set of pale blue narrowing. The other boy folded his arms, surveying him.

“I’m not anybody’s father.” He answered, in a hushed tone, before adding; “I don’t like being in there much.”

“Me neither.” Abraham commented. “My brother thinks it’s the greatest part of growing up- enjoying parties.”

The boy was silent for a moment, sizing him up.

“I’m Ben.” The taller one said, finally, chewing on his bottom lip. “Ben Tallmadge. My family, we moved here from Brookhaven. My father is fondest of the churches here.”

Abraham had half a mind to correct him- there was a _church,_ in the singular form, as far as he knew. But, then again, there were lots of things that he didn’t know.

“Your father’s a preacher?”

“Reverend.”

“I’m Abe, and my father’s the magistrate.” He said, doing his best to execute the sentence in the exact same way that Richard himself had taught him and Thomas- _to show the good people of Setauket, Long Island, who to look up to!_

Abraham had always found it a little dry.

“Benjamin!”

Both of the boys’ attentions were captured by a man, who had graying hair, and towered over the two of them, even as he kneeled down to their level.

“This is Abe, and his father’s the magistrate.” Ben echoed, shooting his companion an amused look. The corner of Abraham’s lips quirked upwards.

“Ah, I see you’ve made a friend. Are you enrolled in the town’s primary school?”

“Yes,” Abe answered, with a tight nod. “The new year starts first thing tomorrow.”

Frankly, he was dreading it. Tommy would be heading off to his own academy, where he was to get proper education for his pursuit of law ( _“there isn’t a better time to start planning for the future, than the present.” “That’s my son!”),_ which meant that, for the first time, Abe would be all alone.

“Well, Benjamin, you’re gonna have someone to talk to, then.” The Reverend smiled, warmly, and ruffled Ben’s hair, an action that the young boy did not seem to care for. Abraham wondered what it was like, to have a father that cared that much about his son’s emotional security. Richard never made it his business to know whether or not Abe had somebody to talk to in his classes. Richard had never ruffled his hair, either.

Maybe his mother would’ve.

“Well, you two, don’t stray.” Reverend Tallmadge warned, winking at them both and heading back into the room. Ben gave Abe a wary look.

“You don’t _have_ to be my friend.” He said, tentatively.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.” Abe countered, with a small shrug. He knew that was a lie. He had to do a lot of things. “I want to. And so will Caleb and Anna.”

Ben Tallmadge, Caleb Brewster, and Anna Strong were the only source of validation that Abraham ever got; they didn’t know- _of course they didn’t know_ \- but every carefree smile, every piece of praise: those tiny details in an otherwise grand canvas were what made Abe enjoy their company so much. With Thomas gone from the house until summer, he didn’t get that. Ever.

Some nights- the ones with the hot air blowing through the quiet town, the ones with cicadas chirping and fireflies painting the ink black background- the quartet would steal away to the heart of the woods, and turn their gazes to the billions of stars dancing in the sky.

“My mother once told me that each star represented the spirit of somebody who died.” Anna informed them, one day, brown curls spilling out into the grass.

“That’s a lot of people.” Ben breathed, his chest rising up and down. Beside him, Caleb snorted dubiously.

“Too much.” He decided, lowering his eyes. “Hardly anybody in Setauket has ever died- how could there be that many spirits up there?”

The group murmured in agreement, their young minds incapable of understanding how vast their world truly was.

“What are the spirits doing up there, anyways?” Abe pondered, folding his arms.

“Maybe they’re stuck.” Anna suggested, turning on her side to meet his gaze. Abe crinkled his nose, shaking his head.

“I think they’re haunting us.” Ben stated, but this didn’t sit well with Abe, either. There had to be a purpose.

“No, that’s not it.” He argued, softly. “They’re watching over us. Thousands of stars, all those people…” Abe trailed off, and the other three pairs of eyes suddenly landed on him.

“Where you getting this from, Woody?” Caleb asked, curiously, and Abe furrowed his brow.

“My mother’s up there.” He explained, chewing on his lower lip. “I like to think that she still looks out for me.” _Even when it feels like nobody else does_.

Anna smiled sympathetically, and scooted closer to him, placing a hand on Abe’s shoulder.

“You’re not alone, you know?” She told him, dark eyes locking with his. “No matter where we are, or what’s happening- all of us are gonna stick together. Always.”

“‘Till death do us part.” Ben interjected, thoughtfully, with a crooked grin playing on his lips. They sat like that for a while, surrounded by silence, until Caleb was the first to be broken out of the spell. He jumped to his feet, and began to chase around the fireflies floating around them. Ben threw his head back and laughed, as Caleb nearly tripped on the root of a tree.

Anna shook her head at their so-called immaturity, before expertly maneuvering herself through the plethora of branches, hands cupped and stretched out in front of her. Ben leaned against the trunk of the tree, inspecting a caterpillar that had begun to wriggle its way up the wood.

Abraham smiled to himself, entranced by the way they all seemed to fit together, like pieces of a puzzle. He felt as though he were witnessing something secret, a magical story that could only take place in the woods, in Setauket, with merely the moon as their spotlight.

In that moment, he was a little in love with all of them.

+

Summer breaks were always his favorite time of the year, no doubt. His classes were finished, and as a result so we're Tommy’s, which meant that there would be one more Woodhull in Setauket- and more trouble than usual.

His father was always euphoric at the prospect of seeing Thomas again, so much so, that he always sat his eldest son down at the table, and had a lengthy and tedious discussion about all the details surrounding the academy. Abraham, despite Thomas’ urges, refused to stay with his family during these times. Richard always made a point of saying that it was because he was too young to understand.

It wasn’t that, not completely. _Yes_ , Abe was young, _yes,_ he never had been and never would be as intelligent as his brother, but as the years went on, it became less about his lack of understanding, and more about the fact that he hated how in sync Richard and Thomas were.

He was envious of how his father treated Thomas. He was jealous of his encouraging smiles, and their shared goals. The fact that Richard never seemed to pay any attention to _him_ and _his future_ left an all too familiar bitter taste in his mouth.

Summer may have been his favorite time, but sometimes it was the worst part of the year.

Despite the constricting feeling in Abe’s gut, Thomas always seemed to alleviate his troubles; his brother was easily his favorite person. The two boys would still head out to the courtyard and quarrel underneath the blistering sun. Ben, Caleb, and Anna always joined in, and they were sometimes accompanied by a boy their age named Selah, who was pale and thin-lipped, but ferociously playful all the same.

Abe liked it especially when his friends were there, because his father always made it a point to steer clear from them. He wasn’t _too_ fond of any of them- to Richard, the most tolerable was Ben, and the least was Anna. The only reason that the latter was allowed to remain, was because their families were very close friends.

Richard never seemed to make up his mind about his stance on Caleb, not unlike many of the other’s parents. His uncle was a kind old man, impartial to the town, but especially important to the Tallmadges, who regarded Caleb as their own. As for everybody else: Caleb Brewster was loud, and disruptive, and not particularly special at all.

Abe absolutely loathed how he was viewed: Caleb was one of the most quick-witted people he had ever met, friendly and rambunctious, and their group would never trade him for the world. Ben would never let them, anyways. Abe and Anna were highly aware that Caleb was Ben’s best friend, and that the two were each other’s favorites.

Which often meant that Abe was left alone with Anna, while the other two went off, creating new worlds and exploring old ones. Abraham didn’t mind, he enjoyed Anna’s company. She was one of his best friends, after all.

Sometimes, whenever Richard was out, they’d head off to the dining room and pretend they were all grown up and present at one of those lavishly frivolous parties that his father sometimes threw. They’d sit at the table and talk in exaggerated accents, before laughing and dancing around the empty room. Ben and Caleb were never there for those special events. Abe preferred it that way. He liked having something that was just his. His and Anna’s.

“Do you think you’ll ever do this for real?” She asked, one day. They were thirteen at the time, still carefree, a little more aware. They’d upgraded from swinging their arms aimlessly to the music playing in their heads, to actual, real dancing. Abe had one hand on her hip, and one palm clutching hers. She did the same thing, except her spare fingers were wrapped around his shoulder.

“Dancing?” He asked, and she nodded. “What, this isn’t real?”

“Quit teasing.” Anna chided, rolling her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

He thought about it for a moment.

“I don’t know. I’ve never liked parties.” He decided, as they twirled along the large room. “Suddenly changing my mind would lead to my father’s excessive bouts of _I told you so._ ”

“Well, we definitely don’t want _that.”_ Anna agreed, lips curling with distaste.

“Besides, I’d have to dance with _someone._ A _girl.”_ Abe said, cocking his head to the side. The idea seemed strange, foreign, unwelcoming. He knew all of the people in Setauket, including the women, and he didn’t think he’d feel comfortable doing this with any of them.

“ _I’m_ a girl, Abraham.” Anna pointed out, exasperatedly. He bit his lip, realizing she had a point.

“But you’re _you._ You’re my friend.”

“I can still be your friend _and_ be a girl at the same time.” Anna pointed out, eyes narrowing. “It’s not particularly exclusive.”

Abe, unsure of how to answer, said nothing, and continued moving swiftly along the hall. Anna kept her gaze on his, firmly.

“You should get used to interacting with girls.” She advised. “You’re gonna have to marry one, someday.”

“Why?”

Anna stopped, abruptly, giving him an incredulous look.

“What do you mean, why?” She echoed, rhetorically. Abe shrugged, and Anna raised her eyebrow, before chuckling slightly. “Well, who else are you gonna marry? A boy?”

“My point was: _why do I have to get married?_ What’s so great about it?” He clarified, before frowning. “And what’s wrong with marrying a boy? _You’re_ gonna do it!”

“Well, yes, but- as we have covered, several times- I’m a girl.” She said, dryly.

“ _And?”_

Anna furrowed her brow, looking intently at Abraham- almost as if she were searching his expression for any sign of humor; he couldn’t fathom why. He’d asked a legitimate question.

“Well, Abraham,” she began, slowly, brown eyes deeply puzzled. “Boys marry girls. And girls marry boys.”

“Says who?” Abe challenged, and Anna faltered.

“I don’t know! Everybody!” She countered, frustratedly. “Why? Would _you_ marry a boy?”

He paused, contemplating the prospect for a moment. He’d never really thought about marriage, in general. To Abe, falling in love with a person _(having them fall in love with him)_ was such an unattainable concept. Did the gender of who you married honestly matter all that much? If anybody ever bothered to care so deeply for Abe, he wouldn’t be particularly picky.

“ _Abraham._ ” Anna snapped, dragging the boy out of his reverie. “It wouldn’t work, anyways. You’d have to find boys attractive!”

“Right.” Abe nodded, because it felt as though he had to agree. “You’re right.”

Anna laughed, detaching her hand from his shoulder, and heading back to the table. She motioned for him to follow, and the two spent the rest of the day telling jokes, and waiting for Ben and Caleb to join in. The previous subject was completely discarded, and Abe was certain Anna had forgotten the conversation.

He hadn’t. He thought about it for the rest of the day. He just couldn’t fathom what could possibly be _so wrong_ with finding another boy attractive. Abe was certain that Anna had to have been wrong, at least, when it came to that point.

For example, Ben was very good looking. _And_ so was Anna. What was the problem with noticing things like that?

He concluded that there couldn’t be any, and vowed not to pursue the thought any further.

Fate, however, intervened.

One of the most consistently tedious lessons in his entire class curriculum was the in-depth study of religion, that they had to take, a year later. Thomas had often whispered complaints about this class to Abraham, after their father had exited the room. Thomas wouldn’t dare do it while he was near them. One of Richard’s favorite things was the bible. It probably ranked higher than Abe, himself.

He slumped down next to Caleb, who was chatting amicably with Ben and Selah. Anna was off at finishing school, just like all the other girls. According to the brunette, it wasn’t any more entertaining than his classes.

Their professor stood in front of a chalkboard, and Abe was hit with a profound wave of dislike for the man almost instantaneously. His chin was jutted out, his fingers were tapping on a small, leather-bound book, and his face seemed to be perpetually downcast. His eyes flew over the small conglomeration of boys, glaring sharply at each face.

“We’re beginning.” He demanded, not particularly loudly. All the kids in the room stopped talking, and quietly settled into their seats.

“I’m Professor Adkins, and if you’re in this class, it means you are all fourteen years of age, correct?”

They all mumbled ‘yes’ in agreement. Adkins seemed dissatisfied.

“I believe I asked a question.” He said, narrowing his dark eyes.

“I believe we answered.” Caleb quipped, and the class tittered. The Professor focused his gaze on the young boy, and walked over to his desk. They held their breaths.

“What’s your name?” He asked, tilting his head to the side, with faux kindness. Abe clenched his teeth.

“Caleb Brewster, at your service.”

“Brewster.” The man repeated, raising his nose into the air, slightly. Abe stifled a snicker; the action made him resemble one of those birds he always saw outside his window. “Come with me.”

Caleb paled, but kept his ground as he stood up and followed the teacher out. They all sat, tensely. Ben’s foot was consistently tapping against the floor, his breathing uneven and jittery.

“You don’t think they’ll hurt him, right?” He asked, turning to the shorter boy. Abe swallowed.

“Not harshly,” was all he could bring himself to answer.

All of the boys had been witness to the penalties that came with speaking out of turn, and disobeying their schoolteachers- in fact, all of them had been at the other end of the rope, as well. But none of them had seen a Professor take such harsh methods for such a small act of insubordination.

Caleb returned five minutes later, his face stony and deeply annoyed. _Ruler,_ he mouthed at Ben and Abe. Professor Adkins looked unaffected, as he grabbed the book and placed it in the middle of a table that was positioned in front of his class.

“In the beginning, there was nothing.”

Abe slouched back, irritably. He’d already heard all of this, several times. They _all_ had. Adkins’ voice had a southern twang to it, deep and raspy. He was old- his hair was more salt than pepper- but not old enough to seek retirement, apparently.

“And on the sixth day, God created mankind. From the rib of Adam, Eve was born. It’s how we know the standards for relationships. The only acceptable relations are those used for procreation between a woman and a man.” He looked, up daring anybody to challenge him.

Next to him, Ben was oddly silent. He had stopped tapping his pencil, and his deeply blue eyes were trained on his wooden desk.

_Boys marry girls. And girls marry boys._

Anna’s words rang in Abe’s ears as the Professor continued reading from the bible. Something felt off. His mouth was dry, and his stomach hurt, and _what this man was saying was wrong._

“Some people- _sodomites_ \- reject the Lord and his teachings. They sleep around, often with people of the same gender. It’s ungodly.” Adkins said, disgustedly.

“Doesn’t God just want us to love each other?” Abraham interjected. Adkins turned his gaze to the fourteen year old, eyebrow raised precariously.

“As brothers and sisters.”

“Well, then surely, even a man and a woman being together is wrong.”

The Professor gave him a hard look, pursing his lips. Abe had a strong urge to turn away, to run away, because he _knew_ that look. It was the same look his father gave him, whenever he did something wrong. But, this time, he didn’t think that what he was doing was wrong.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Abraham Woodhull.” He answered, his voice quavering slightly.

“See me after class.” Adkins told him, before turning back to the bible. “We continue with our lesson.”

Abe didn’t pay attention for the remainder of the class; his insides felt tumultuous, wondering what would happen when he was alone with Adkins. He didn’t know why the man’s words upset him so much, but they _did,_ and he absolutely detested him and this class. It was fervent, and passionate, and oddly _freeing,_ because he had never been allowed to hate somebody, had he?

The minute the lesson was over, all the students made themselves scarce- religion was the last class of the day, and none of them wanted to stay inside the suffocating classroom any longer.

Ben and Caleb shared a glance, turning to Abe.

“We’ll wait for you outside, okay?”

He nodded, and watched them go off, together. They were always together, weren’t they? He felt a strong surge of _something_ akin to the loathing that had bubbled in him throughout the last hour. But why would he possibly direct that hate towards Ben or Caleb? And _who_ was it meant for?

He rubbed his eyes, in a vague attempt to clear his head, before stepping up to Adkins’ desk.

“Mister… Woodhull, is it?” The Professor asked, folding his arms and surveying the scrawny teenager. Abraham nodded. “Any relation to Thomas Woodhull?”

_Of course._

“Yes, sir, he’s my brother.”

“Yes, I can see the resemblance. I taught him, a couple of years ago; he was brilliant. Absolutely excellent.” The man praised, and Abe forced a smile to his face.

“The usual, then?” He quipped, and Adkins laughed, good-naturedly.

“I’ll tell you: minds like that only come along once in a lifetime. He’ll do great things. He’s in college now, isn’t he?”

“No; he’s applied, but hasn’t heard back yet.” _Kings College. It was gonna be Kings College._

“You tell me when he does.” Adkins demanded, running a hand through his hair. “Now, about what you were saying in class…”

Abe swallowed, fiddling with the seams of his breeches.

“I can understand how a young man such as yourself could become confused. The world is so bright, and beautiful to you, that you can hardly see how sinful everything is.” Adkins guessed, and Abraham squared his jaw. “But, you have to understand: the bible spells it out quite clearly- men and women are the only ones allowed to engage in sexual relations, and _only_ when it comes to procreation. Those who disobey are headed for hell.” He said, simply. “Do you understand?”

Abraham said nothing.

“I said, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” He answered, through gritted teeth. “I don’t know how I could have been so out of line.”

“Not all Woodhulls are the same, apparently.” Adkins commented, snidely, and Abe felt the fury in the pit of his stomach grow. “You’re free to go.”

With fire in his heart and complacency in his eyes, Abe turned on his heels and headed towards the door.

Ben and Caleb sat on the steps to the schoolhouse, waiting for him. Abe pushed past them, brusquely, and looked off into the distance, where his house was visible.

“Hey, slow down!” Ben called after Abe, trotting up to him. “What happened?”

Abe whipped around, glaring at the two, that irrational anger from before surging through him again.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Caleb told him, grabbing onto the back of his neck, and, god, after what they’d learned, _you’d think he’d stop touching him so much_.

Maybe those looks he always gave Ben weren’t just looks, after all.

For whatever reason, that made him even angrier.

He closed his eyes, breathing in. This wasn’t him. He couldn’t let himself be governed by his anger- he wasn’t even upset at Ben and Caleb, to begin with. They hadn’t done anything wrong ( _except exclude him in their world)_ , and they had always been kind ( _their special, secret universe)_ , and they were his best friends _(but they were happy to count him out)_ , and he had to leave them out of this.

“Nothing, I just…” Abe sighed, shakily. “It’s Thomas. Adkins knows Thomas. I shouldn’t be surprised- everybody knows Thomas Woodhull, the smartest, most articulate person in this whole damn town- ‘and, _oh,_ are you absolutely sure that _you’re_ his brother?’”

Ben gave him a sympathetic look, reaching forwards and pulling Abe into a hug ( _he smelled good_ ). Caleb slid his hand to the boy’s shoulder, gripping onto it supportively.

“What the bloody hell did _I_ miss?”

They all pulled apart to face an amused Anna Strong, who merely grabbed them all and tugged them towards her. The quartet toppled over, shaking with laughter.

All of Abe’s ire drifted away, replaced by that old sense of belonging, the one that didn’t come around as much, anymore.

Somehow, their troubles seemed to dissipate whenever they were all together.

+

That year- his first one in secondary school- was not only the year of the dreaded religion class, but also the time period in which Thomas was actually home for months at a time. Granted, he didn’t have much time for games, anymore. He spent his days pouring over books and letters, and checking their packages every day.

In 1764, just after the French and Indian War had reached its finale, Thomas was, for the first time in probably his entire life, noticeably nervous. His future career in the field of the law gave him several opportunities for different colleges, and he had applied to them all. They were all rooting for Kings College, though. Or, at least, Richard definitely was.

“Have you given much thought to what you want to do with your future?” Thomas asked, one of those days, glancing up from his page. Richard shifted in his seat, dubiously turning to Abe.

“He’s much more absentminded, I wouldn’t put it past him to procrastinate until the deadline for applications.” Their father divulged, and Thomas gave him a pointed look, before softening slightly and turning to Abe again.

The truth was that Abraham hadn’t really wanted to set anything in stone- but the expression on his father’s face was one that he would do anything to wipe off.

“Yes, actually.” He answered, smiling sardonically at Richard, who seemed surprised, to say the least. “I want to study the law.”

Thomas, who’s jaw had been unhinged in wonder, shut his mouth and gave him an encouraging grin.

“That’s brave of you to pursue. I didn’t know you were interested in the law!”

 _Neither did I,_ Abe thinks wryly.

“Who knows, maybe he’ll get into Kings College.” Richard chuckled, the idea clearly seeming far-fetched to him. “That’ll be the day I can look him proudly in the eye.”

And, just like that, Abraham Woodhull had something to work towards.

+

Almost everybody had been ecstatic, after

learning about Britain’s victory in The Seven Years War. Another thing that humans needed to learn to deal with, however, was consequences.

The Sugar Act was passed in 1764. It’s purpose was, supposedly, to reduce the rate of tax on molasses from six pence to three pence per gallon, but also to ensure that the new tax could be collected by increased British military presence and controls.

Setauket was a town that had always been loyal to the Crown, which meant that Abraham’s sources came from the whispered conversation his brother and father often engaged in, while they thought him asleep.

“What is it they’re saying?” Richard asked. From his spot behind the door, Abe could see the worried look that had settled onto his face.

“‘No taxation without representation.’” Thomas answered, gravely. “It’s a madhouse, father, the _things_ I’ve heard.”

“Like?”

Thomas was quiet for a moment, and Abe pressed his ear to the crack on the door, straining to hear.

“Talks of rebellion.”

“Rebellion?”

“Against the King.”

Richard sat in stunned silence, and Abe was unsure of what exactly he was hearing; rebelling? Against their King? That was unheard of! Or, at least, he’d never heard of it.

“Surely, they have to understand that these taxes are necessary.” Richard said, gesticulating wildly. “After that war, we’re in deep debt!”

“Some colonists seem to believe that the action of placing taxes on us all, without having any colonists in Parliament to make decisions in our favor, is a direct violation of our rights.” Thomas explained, wringing his hands. “If this keeps going, things are going to get heated.”

“And if it doesn’t, the country is gonna be in bankruptcy!”

Abraham had to admit that his father had a point there. Turning over the new information in his mind, he climbed back into his bed, and made a resolute promise to tell the others, tomorrow.

+

“Well, of course they should be angry!” Anna decided, her small stature being no match for the passion with which she spoke. “What Parliament is doing is unjust. They can’t place taxes on _us,_ in order to clean up _their_ mess. Especially when we don’t have anybody on our side in Parliament.”

“Where do you get all this from, Annie?” Caleb pondered, lying against the trunk of their tree.

“My father talks about it all the time.” She informed them. “And it’s a growing problem; he thinks that Britain is gonna place _more_ taxes on us and that _that’s_ when everybody’s gonna explode. A catchy slogan is nothing, Abraham. Most people see this as an extension of the Revenue Act of 1733, anyways. Just wait. Something is starting, and all Britain is doing is adding fire to the inevitable.”

Abraham stared at her, gobsmacked.

“What do they teach you in finishing school?” He said, rhetorically, and she smiled fondly at him.

“What was the phrase, again?” Ben asked, curiously.

“Thomas said ‘no taxation without representation.’” Abe repeated, recalling the way his brother had sounded so wary of it all.

“‘No taxation without representation.’” Ben echoed, chewing on his lower lip. “It’s powerful. It rhymes. I like it.”

“Do _you_ think there should be a revolution?” Caleb queried, turning his face towards Ben’s.

“My parents have been talking about it, as well. They seem to think that there should be. Frankly, I agree- we don’t need some man living large across the sea, telling us what to do, especially when he expects _us_ to pay for his mistakes. Monarchism destroys our sense of independence.” Ben ranted, his eyes ablaze.

The commentary from last night, when compared with the one from now, was very different in its views. On the one hand, his brother seemed scared of a revolt. On the other, all his friends seemed so _eager_ for one.

He didn’t know his stance on the subject, and he honestly didn’t care to figure it out, right now. He had vowed to himself he would be accepted into Kings College, and he was planning on holding himself to that.

He didn’t have time for silly colonial tantrums, anyways.

+

In 1765, there was another tax passed; The Stamp Act.

Anna was right. The people were livid.

+

In the end, Thomas got into Kings College, just like they all always knew he would. He was praised, he was thrown a party, and Abe was happy for him, he really was.

But, of course, Thomas’ advantage only made him strive harder; by the time in which he had to apply to his schools, Abe had every single law book in his house memorized. Even Richard was impressed by the extent of his knowledge (even if he refused to give him the same recognition he gave Thomas).

He worked obscenely hard at it all.

And, so, Abraham Woodhull was accepted into Kings College, as well as a myriad of other high standard schools. And they celebrated him, just as they had celebrated his brother, and, _god,_ it felt good to finally be appreciated by more than four people at once.

He started college in 1769. The workload was more than he had ever taken on, but Abe was pleasantly surprised by how much he actually enjoyed the law. He was _good_ at it. There was something about growing up as the son of a Judge, that granted him some inherent knowledge as to how a courtroom could be swayed.

And yet, no matter how much he enjoyed it, everything that has ever been consistent in his life seemed to change. He was in Kings College. Ben was off at Yale. Caleb had become a sailor. Anna stayed behind in Setauket.

The revolution was gaining momentum. There were boycotts of British goods, and rumors of resolutions being presented at the House of Burgesses. No longer was it something to be taken with light air. There was a so-called Liberty Pole near the commons, which had been there since the year prior; it had been erected by the Sons of Liberty, and was the product of the repealed Sugar Act, in 1766.

According to one of the people at the college, the Liberty Pole had been constantly destroyed by the King’s militia, every single night, but the Sons of Liberty refused to give up. For every destroyed Pole, a new one rose in its place. Their perseverance had won, and there hadn’t been an attack on the Liberty Poles since 1768.

And there wasn’t one after, either. At least, not until 1770. On that fateful day, Abraham had been walking over to the library. One of his classmates ran up to him, eyes wild, telling him that his brother was out there with the militia, tearing the Liberty Pole down.

Abe had all but dropped his books and rushed down to the commons, watching in awe as the tall object crashed to the ground. There was such a commotion in the streets, that he couldn’t tell who was who; the Sons of Liberty were shouting indignantly, while the King’s militia pushed through the masses. His eyes scanned the tumultuous crowd for Thomas.

He smiled, catching sight of a familiar head of dark blonde hair waving at him triumphantly. The Pole was down, leaving pandemonium in its wake.

“Abraham,” Thomas hugged him tightly, after breaking away from the crowd. “It’s good to see you.”

“King’s militia?” Abe whistled, smiling widely. “That’s impressive.”

Thomas laughed, and swung an arm around his brother’s neck. They went and got a drink. From their spot in the pub, they could hear the rebellious screams of one Samuel Adams.

Abe did his best to ignore it.

+

The worst event in Abraham Woodhull’s life, took place on the year 1773.

If there was one thing the Sons of Liberty did not do, it was give up. Three years after the rekindled hatred towards the Liberty Pole culminated, they still continued hiking up the symbolically glorified stick up into the air. Abe felt particularly bad for his poor brother, who had to revisit the commons nearly every single week.

Although, he really didn't understand why the militia couldn’t just leave the Sons of Liberty to their own devices- who cared if they were rejoicing? It wasn’t a direct attack to the King, so why would it possibly matter?

It happened while he was drunk, in the same pub he had visited with Thomas. One of his friends swaggered up to him, carefree smirk on his delicate lips, and asked if he wanted to help Sam Adams out with something.

Abraham, with a little help from the alcohol, agreed, and followed the man- Francis Hoffman- out into the field, where the Liberty Pole was getting ready to be pulled up. Abe helped lift it but, that wasn’t the only way he contributed.

He didn’t know what possessed him to do it. All he knew, was that one second his hands were empty, and the next he had pulled a Phrygian cap off one of the men there, and had begun to climb up the pole. The others cheered him on, laughing at his relatively small frame shimmying up to the top and placing the cap on it.

He basically tumbled down to the ground, his drunken chortles echoing throughout the terrain. Francis shook his head, amusedly, and pulled him back up.

“You foolishly brave little shite.” He praised, pulling him off to one of the corners, his red curls dancing in front of his face. Abraham smiled dopily, the booze’s effects not having worn off. They were hidden from the view of the others.

There were billions of stars in the sky, that night. Abraham felt fantastically and illegally free- if only his father could see him now. He swayed dangerously close to Francis, his forehead touching the other man’s.

“Speaking of foolishly brave,” Francis began, but he was cut off because Abe was kissing him, fumbling around in the dark, doing basically anything to hold onto the feeling that contributing to the rebellion had granted him. It didn’t take long for Francis to react, maneuvering his lips against Abe’s clumsily.

By then, Abe had been kissed loads of times- _by girls._ Some he had dated, some had merely been the result of passing attraction. One had been Anna, and, for whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to forget their little escapade.

Kissing Francis was no different, except it _was_ ; it was exciting and dangerous, it was him taking control of his life, and having complete and utter disregard for everything his father had ever told him.

_It was fucking addicting._

Only when they heard a gunshot, did Francis push Abe back. The former was considerably more lucid than the latter, and he somehow managed to get them both stumbling back to the commons, where there was…. a rampage. Nothing at all like the minuscule riots that took place weekly.

This was actual fighting, actual death, and the fear shook Abe to his core- the last bit of liquid courage drained away, as he watched people get trampled, and, _oh my god, Thomas was there, Thomas was fighting, Thomas could die, Thomas was-_

“Get your head out of your ass, Woodhull!” Francis yelled, pushing him in the direction of Kings College. “You’re not a soldier, you’ve got to take cover.”

That’s when he saw it; a dark blonde head crumpling to the ground, covered in a sickening amount of blood, falling in with the mass of bodies on the grass, losing consciousness. Someone was yelling, someone was dropping to his knees, and it took Abe a moment to realize that that someone was _him_. His entire body felt numb, as he pulled himself up and ran towards his brother.

Francis and a few others tried to hold him back, and Abe fought them ferociously, clawing and kicking and screaming, because this couldn’t be happening, this wasn’t real.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” Francis shouted. Abe couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him, couldn’t see _anything_ but the image of his brother lying dead on the ground, something that would be seared into his brain, forever. Something hard hit his skull, and Abe could feel himself losing consciousness. As everything faded to black, Abraham could feel his entire world shattering.

_His brother was dead._

_His brother was dead, and it was his fault._

_+_

His head pounded against his skull, the makings of a hideous headache impeding Abe from being able to think straight. The events of last night weighed down on his conscious, despite the fact that he was too hungover to remember them.

“Drink some water,” Francis told him, passing him a glass. Abe, eyes half-lidded, grabbed it and took a tentative sip. The light from the window cast a red halo around Francis’ head, and Abe was suddenly hit with the fact that he had been kissing this man, not ten hours prior.

_The cap. Francis. The riots. His brother._

_His brother._

“They’ve collected all of the bodies from the battle, last night,” Francis began, running a hand through his hair and sitting at the edge of the bed.

_His brother._

“It wasn’t too bloody, but there were several casualties.”

_His brother._

“Thomas…” Francis bit his lip, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, Abraham.”

_His brother was dead._

“It was the Phrygian cap, wasn’t it?” Abe demanded, doing his best to sit up, despite the ringing in his ears. Francis looked away, fixing his gaze on his knees.

Abe swallowed, thickly. That told him enough.

“They don’t know it was you.” The other man consoled, placing a hand on his shoulder. Abe jerked away, facing the opposite side, feeling his face grow hot with grief and embarrassment. It was all his fault. Those soldier’s deaths, all the innocent fatalities, had been his fault. _Thomas’ death was his fault._

“I think they’ve written to your father.” Francis said, clearing his throat, awkwardly. “I talked to the Head, and he says you’re allowed to take a break and head back home.”

_Take a break. Is that what they expected him to do?_

“That was kind of you.” He choked out, because Francis didn’t _have_ to do any of this. He should kiss boys more often, if they were going to be so kind towards him after.

“Any time. I have to get to my lessons, though.”

“Of course.”

Abe felt the urge to turn around and thank him, properly, if only out of courtesy, but he couldn’t bring himself to showcase his vulnerable state to anybody, much less somebody he was only tied to out of recklessness. He would thank him properly, afterwards.

(Abe never saw Francis Hoffman, ever again.)

+

Being back home in Setauket was a surreal experience. He hadn’t told anybody he was coming home. They were probably expecting him, anyways. World traveled fast in their little town, and he wasn’t at all surprised when he heard the whispers and saw the glances directed at him. Poor little Abe Woodhull, dealt such a cruel hand by the Lord. It was almost laughable.

God, fate, destiny? That had absolutely nothing to do with anything; those weren’t the reasons his brother had been brutally murdered. _He_ was the reason that had happened.

And Abraham would be damned if he ever let anybody find out.

All around him, the people of Setauket seemed to appear out of nowhere, offering their condolences, asking about his school, being perfectly civil and kind.

Abe hated it. He had no reason to, he knew that. But it was almost as though he was back in religion class, the area closing down on him, and the irritation in his chest grew and grew and grew. 

In actuality, he wasn’t mad at any of them. He was mad at himself. Furious at his own stupidity. What had he been thinking? A Phrygian cap represented freedom and independence, it was a direct insult to the King. He had been blinded by the elation coursing through him, and now he had to face the aftermath.

His anger was a coping mechanism. It had been since he was young. It had always been thoroughly ineffective, but he couldn’t stop the vexation from setting in. _The sky is too gray, there’s too many people, there isn’t enough alcohol, his friends were nowhere to be seen, his father wasn’t even home, his brother was dead, dead, dead-_

“Abraham?”

His eyes locked with a pair of unwaveringly fierce chocolate, and, somehow, all of his frustration melted away.

“Anna.” He breathed, blinking away the tears that had begun to form in his eyes. “You’re here.”

“I never left.” She told him, walking up to Abraham, with her head cocked to the side. “I’m- I’m so sorry to hear about-”

Abe shook his head, and Anna took the hint, opting instead to pull him into a hug. She wrapped her arms around his neck, filling him with her warmth, with her care and her love.

Someday, he’d have to tell her the full story. She wouldn’t want to be hugging a murderer.

Anna pulled back, placing her hand on his cheek, and guiding him towards the middle of the room, humming a low tune under her breath.

“What are you….” He trailed off, watching as Anna placed one of her hands in his, and the other on his shoulder. She moved his own hand to her waist, and placed her head on his chest. They swayed in place to the quiet music Anna made for them. Just like they had, when they were kids- except different. More intimate. More tragic.

He laid his head on top of hers, breathing her in. A single tear slipped down his face. It was all he would allow himself to cry. He wouldn’t wallow in self-pity for an event that he caused.

Anna pulled back, and wiped his eyes, leaning forwards to place a kiss to his cheek.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Abraham.” She promised, running her fingers through his skin.

He didn’t know if he believed her.

+

It was a week after Thomas’ death, that Abraham decided he wasn’t going back to Kings College. He couldn’t even bring himself to contemplate what it would be like, acting as though everything was fine. Everything wasn’t fine, and it was never going to _be_ fine, if he went back there.

His main concern was telling his father, but that didn’t seem to be a legitimate worry: his father hadn’t been home since Abe had returned to Setauket. He wasn’t complaining.

Abraham also had no way of knowing if Ben or Caleb knew about Thomas, because he hadn’t heard from them, either- and _that_ was a little upsetting, because it meant that he’d have to tell them when _(if)_ they returned. Reverend Tallmadge had stopped by, several times, expressing his deepest condolences, just like everybody else had. He didn’t bring up Ben, and Lucas Brewster didn’t bring up Caleb.

Anna, however, was constantly with him, helping Abe with all the people crowding Whitehall’s front doors, consoling him with the light that seemed to emulate from her kind smile.

Abe wondered if she remembered the first time, the only time, they had ever kissed; it was right after Abraham got accepted into Kings Ckollege. While Richard bragged about how intelligent both of his sons were, he had sneaked off to the side, feeling like he was seven years old again. Except, instead of Ben following him, Anna had.

(The thought of Ben following him wasn’t unappealing, but he tried not to dwell on that too much.)

They had sat outside, talking for hours. About how things were gonna change. It was a unanimous decision that they needed to do something to hold onto the moment ( _his entire life was based on trying to hold onto moments)_ , and so Anna had leaned in and pressed her lips against his, softly. Their noses had bumped together, and it was awkward and messy, but it was theirs.

He was a much better kisser now, but that was besides the point. His main thought was that him and Anna? It would _work._ Who had stayed with him, while Ben and Caleb went off on their own? _Anna._ Who talked him down from his fits of anger? _Anna_. Who was the only person who actually seemed to care about him, right now, when he most needed it? _Anna._

_(He should have know that basing a relationship off the need for validation would never have ended well.)_

“We should have dinner.” Abe suggested, his lips twitching slightly, with the beginnings of a smile. Anna quirked her eyebrow.

“Dinner? Here?”

“Why not? My father hasn’t been around. It doesn’t seem as though he’s coming back anytime soon. You don’t have to go back home, tonight.”

Anna placed a hand on her hip, her demeanor dubious, almost as if she believed Abraham was playing a joke on her.

“As a thank you,” Abe explained. “For being here with me, and helping me out.”

“Anybody in my position would have done it.” Anna waved him off, but she was grinning.

“They didn’t.”

The brunette met his gaze, and gave him a small nod.

“I’ll have dinner with you.” She agreed, and Abe’s lips spread into a wide smile. The first one he’d worn in the three months he’d been home.

+

They kissed again, that night. The pale, crescent moon cast an eery glow on Abe’s room, as he ran his lips through Anna’s neck, and held on tight to her waist. She was soft and beautiful, and he loved her, he always had.

+

For once, things seemed to actually be going his way. Living in Whitehall, without his father, without the constant reminder that he would never see his brother again, _with Anna,_ was the closest thing to satisfaction that he had had in a long time.

It wasn’t until he had her, that Abraham realized how lonely he had previously been. It felt as though a weight had been released from his shoulders, as though he could finally _breathe_. It wasn’t perfect, not even close. The corridors were too empty, Thomas’ room too unoccupied, and Abe was still sometimes struck by the overwhelming sense of heartbreak he felt.

A cord inside of him hadn’t just been broken- it had been ripped at, clawed it, a cut that turned into a festering wound.

He was broken, but Anna would help put him back together. And, over time, everything would turn out okay.

_(He was naïve._

_This wasn’t one of Thomas’ stories_.)

+

Sometimes, Abraham would wake in the middle of the night, swearing he could hear gunshots, trapped in a constant loop of that night. The first few times, Anna woke up as well, and ran her hands through his hair, looking at him, concernedly. As time went on, he learned to keep quiet about it, taught himself how to slip out of bed unnoticed.

On those nights, Abe sat down in Thomas’ armchair, closing his eyes and losing himself in the memories. The good ones, of him and his brother, each scheme, each prank, all the scenes playing like a moving picture in his mind.

He sank into the seat, breathing in and out, slowly. If he pretended hard enough, he could feel Thomas at his side. If he tried hard enough, he could see those mirth-filled eyes.

“Do you do this every night?”

Abraham’s own eyes flew open, shooting up, startled. A pair of dark green stared back at him, unblinking and completely blank. They were the same shade of Thomas’, but they lacked the glimmer, they were too jaded.

He folded his arms, gaze hardening as he took in his father, sitting in the armchair adjacent to his.

“Just the ones in which I can’t sleep.” He answered, tightly.

“I can’t understand how there are times in which you _can_ sleep, knowing your brother was murdered.” Richard stated, bluntly, and Abe felt that familiar anger bubble up to the surface.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded, clenching his knuckles. Richard laughed; an ugly, hollow laugh, nothing like the one Abe was used to.

“This is my house, Abraham.” He said, with a shake of his head. “Your delusions of playing house with that girl are over.”

“How do you know about that? When did you get here? _Where did you go, in the first place?”_ Abe asked, running a hand through his hair. Richard gave him a reproachful look.

“Being a lawyer, you should know better than to bombard people with questions.” He chided, steadily, and Abe gritted his teeth. “To answer your queries, in order: everybody knows. They told me. You can’t possibly be surprised. Subtlety has never been your forté. I got here today, an hour ago. I stopped by Selah’s tavern, because I wasn’t in a particular hurry. And I was doing what was necessary, settling Thomas’ affairs.”

All of this was spoken clearly, voice unwavering, eyes fixed on the fire in front of them.

“You were ‘settling Thomas’ affairs,’” Abraham echoed, mockingly. Richard lifted his eyes up to meet his son’s.

“He deserves to have everything in his life settled. He deserves respect, Abraham.”

“What about what _I_ deserve?” Abe snarled, standing up and turning angrily to his dad. Richard’s face remained impassive. “You knew that I would return, and that I would need to handle this all on my own. And you knew you couldn’t handle that, so you _left._ You left, and left me to pick up the pieces. You prioritized your dead son, over your living one, and, honestly, I’m not surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richard demanded, showing the slightest bit of emotion, for the first time since Abe had found him.

“You always loved him more than you loved me, admit it.” He yelled, and Richard’s neck snapped up, lips stretched thin.

“That is a baseless accusation, Abraham, you don’t know what you’re-”

“It was always ‘Thomas this, Thomas that,’ he was the golden boy, he was your favorite, and he’s fucking dead, okay? _He’s gone, and he’s never coming back._ And what do you do? You continue to idolize him. You completely disregard how much his death broke me. You have only ever cared about yourself. Yourself, and your dead son.” Abraham shouted, tears streaming down his face. “What did I do, to make you antagonize me so much? What kind of father does that to his own son?”

Richard looked down, his breathing shaky, and his shoulders hunched.

“You’re just like her, you know.” He stated, silently. Abraham faltered, brows knit together.

“What?”

“Your mother. You’re exactly like her. Same passion, same stubbornness.” Richard leveled his eyes with Abe’s. “Sometimes, I can’t stand looking at you. It hurts too much. I won’t apologize for that.”

He stood up, his face the picture of serenity, once again. With a shake of his head and a look at the clock, Richard turned towards his room, pausing to call out over his shoulders;

“I’ll let you rifle through Thomas’ papers, tomorrow. Try not to wake the neighbors with your screaming.”

Abraham, completely thrown off-guard by the turn in the conversation, swallowed thickly, and trudged back up the stairs to his own bed, where Anna sat, tiredly. She looked like she wanted to say something, so Abe lunged forward and pressed his lips to hers, quick, easy, but not at all comforting.

+

Breakfast the next morning was awkward, to say the least. Richard’s presence cast a dark shadow over them both. Abraham was absolutely done with it all. He wouldn’t let his happiness be subjective to his father’s irrelevance.

They sat at the table, Abe and Richard surrounded by papers. Thomas didn’t have a will, which meant that nearly all his possessions would belong to Richard, until he passed on. Anna, much to his father’s chagrin, remained with them as they filed through the seemingly endless pages. She was clever, she could help them out, and she made Abraham feel better.

He refused to let his father’s intrusion ruin things between them. Five months of near satisfaction wouldn’t be washed down the drain.

Which, of course, called for a decision.

Later that day, after Richard had gone off to arrange the funeral, Abe took Anna back into the woods. Their tree was still there, the meaning behind it being one of the few untarnished moments of his childhood. The inscription that he, Ben, Caleb, and Anna had carved into the tree was a little worse for wear, having weathered slightly due to the years gone by, but it was readable, and it made him smile.

“I missed it here.” Anna commented, sitting down on one of the branches closer to the ground. Abe remained standing, tapping his foot.

“Lots of memories here.” He said, pulling down his gray beanie. Anna nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips, looking around the tall tree. “How about we make some more?”

“What?” She turned back to him, eyes widening as Abe pulled out a small gold band.

“Marry me?” He asked, quickly dropping to his knees. Anna stared at Abe, then the ring, then Abe again, before her face broke out into a wider smile.

“Under a tree? What is it with trysts and trees?” She questioned, rhetorically. Abe held his breath, nervously waiting for her answer.

Anna stood, getting down on her knees as well, and stroking his cheek.

“Of course I’ll marry you.” She told him, and Abe let out a sigh of relief, situating the band on her finger. Anna leaned forward to kiss him, and for just one moment, the world was balanced.

+

Cut to three years later, and everything had changed.

“You gonna walk for me, Thomas? Are you gonna walk?” Abe pressed several kisses to his son’s skull, putting him back down and holding his arms up, helping the toddler maneuver his way through the cabbages.

“Are you sure you want him to learn to walk so soon?” Mary asked, as she hung up their laundry.

“Well, he’s almost a year old.” Abe defended, looking up at her. Mary shook her head, pinning up the numerous articles of clothing.

“Faster he learns to walk, the sooner he learns to march.”

Abe paused, looking back down to Thomas; his wispy blonde hair flying around madly, his smile bubbly and carefree and _innocent._

“That’s a good point.”

1776 was the official start of the Revolutionary War; that rebellion they had talked about when Abraham was a child was now in full-swing.

Last he had heard, Ben was fighting in it. He hadn’t shown his face in Setauket, since before Abe left for Kings College. He didn’t like to think about those days, he rarely did.

Abe Woodhull had aged a lot in three years; he’d married his brother’s intended _(“you’re breaking my heart for your honor?” “I’m breaking my own heart for my brother.”)_ , moved out of Whitehall, and had a son- in the time it took him to establish his life, the colonists had declared war on their King.

Most of Setauket was vehemently against the Revolution. Patriots were at risk of being accused of treason, which resulted in a death sentence. It was why Ben could never return, why Caleb would never show his face in the town, again.

Selah and Anna were suspected supporters of the rebellion; Abraham knew the truth: they had always been Patriots, both hot-headed and non-conforming, and practically perfect for each other.

And now they were married.

Funny the way life worked out, sometimes. Three years ago, he was engaged to Anna, and now she was married to somebody else, somebody who wasn’t him, and even though he tried not to, Abe resented Selah for that.

One day, he’d have to stop placing the blame on others. It was his fault that he had to break things off with Anna- his father had come up to him, a young woman trailing behind him, shyly. She was beautiful, with blonde ringlets that framed her face perfectly.

She was Mary Smith, and she had been Thomas’ fiancée. And now she was Abraham’s wife. He knew that if time allowed it, he would do it all over again- he _owed_ Thomas. If it hadn’t been for Abe, the elder boy would be breathing and happy, and married to Mary.

Instead, Abe had to make a choice- his brother or himself? From the way things had played out, the answer had basically been set in stone, and Richard _knew_ this. Manipulation was something that ran in his veins, apparently.

Anna, with her passionate rants and beautiful smiles, was gone. In her place was the reserved woman with whom he currently had a child. And he had grown to love Mary, he really had.

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t look into her light eyes and wish them to be brown, instead. That wasn’t her fault. That wasn’t his father’s fault. That wasn’t Selah’s fault.

The only one ruining his life was himself.

+

He couldn’t believe the bastard had actually done it.

Abe stared, gobsmacked, at the tombstone. His brother’s tombstone. Which was currently being used _as a wall of defense_. A barricade that was created in order to keep out the people that Abe was currently siding with. The kicker, though: nobody knew Abe was siding with them.

He never pictured himself as a spy. Like his father had said, subtlety had never been a particular strength. When Ben had first proposed the idea, Abraham had been against it, completely. He never had chosen a side, not really, but he didn’t particularly care for war. Or, at least, it’s what he told Ben.

_“I remember who you are, even if you’ve forgotten.”_

The words were ones that he thought about constantly, even after he had accepted the offer.

How could Benjamin Tallmadge _possibly_ know who he was? People changed, he had changed. They all had.

He didn’t want a war. How would it affect him?

_(Unjust kings, unfair taxes, unfree land.)_

When had rebellion ever seduced him?

_(Those long, boring parties, you planned your escape, you dreamed of freedom from it all, that’s a part of yourself you can’t leave behind.)_

He couldn’t understand why they revolted, in the first place.

_(Fighting for independence from a king, is no different than fighting for independence within yourself.)_

+

He never intended for any of this to get so out of hand. The flames burned down everything he had worked so hard to protect, and for a moment he catches a glimpse of that cool night in 1733, back in Kings College.

With the pull of a trigger, his deepest, darkest secret was one-upped.

Mary squeezed his hand, reassuringly, as she cradled Thomas in her arms. Abraham couldn’t bring himself to look away from his house, and the smoke rising from it. By the time his father and Hewlett show up, the house is crumbling down, and Mary has her sob story about how brave Ensign Baker fought off the rebels and saved them both- but got caught in the crossfire himself, tragically.

Despite the heat that the fire brought along, Abraham’s entire body is numb.

He killed somebody. And this time, it wasn’t a chain reaction- it wasn’t even an accident. He _murdered_ somebody, in a moment of panic. It’s almost enough to make him quit the Ring, altogether.

Almost. But not quite.

If he doesn't, then Baker’s death would have been for nothing, and he wasn’t going to let that happen. With a resolute look at the debris, he began to formulate the plans for an underground safehouse. His work wasn’t over.

It had hardly even begun.

+

Abraham Woodhull had absolutely no idea how he had survived as a secret Patriot, for a whole year.

The truth of the matter was that he had never had much hope for his trip to New York (posing as a double spy- _honestly, what the hell was he thinking?)_ , but with Mary’s concerns, a difficult task had become impossible.

He’d been able to talk Hewlett down from using an escort, but that had merely complicated the mission even further. He was getting caught in his own web of lies, with only one kernel of truth placed strategically in between it all:

_“I will not sit home in safety and comfort, while others are dying for their beliefs.”_

Straightening his jacket, Abe took a deep breath and marched into the inn. There weren’t that many people there (the scum of the town seemed to show up at night, no matter where you were), so he told the person behind the counter what he wanted, and sat down at a table that had a few people conversing and engaging in a game of checkers.

“Here you are, Mr. Woodhull.” The innkeeper said, passing him a plate with eggs. Abraham nodded politely, before turning to the person who stared at the checkerboard, frustratedly. He talked to them for a moment, doing his best to get a feel for the town- last time he’d been there, soldiers were bountiful. Suddenly, they were all gone. He found this a good conversation starter. The man behind the counter did not.

_Best to keep to your porridge, sir._

Abe looked over to the innkeeper, eyebrow raised in intrigue. Was that a _threat?_ He made a mental note to revisit the encounter, later on.

Right now, he had a checkers match to win.

“Might I make a suggestion?” He asked one of the men, the one struggling with the game.

“You could hardly make things any worse.”

Abe smirked, leaning forward and moving the piece according to how he saw fit. His father used to make him cry over this game, until he picked up a few tricks.The man adjacent to him frowned.

“He’ll eat my piece.” He noted, dubiously.

“Sacrifice for the greater good.” Abe countered, watching in triumph as the innkeeper did exactly as he knew he would, an ate the insignificant decoy. The man looked over at him, expectantly. Abe then proceeded to take several of their opponent’s pieces.

The innkeeper gave Abe a pointed look, which he countered with a mocking grin. The man turned on his heel, with an exasperated shake of his head, and headed back to the counter.

The checkers match was basically won, but for Abe and the stranger, that’s when the actual games began.

His name was Robert Townsend, and he was much too clever for Abe’s good.

+

It took one mistake, one egg, one _man,_ to nearly undo everything Abe had been working for. He was astounded at how quickly Townsend had been able to figure him out, how strategically his brain worked.

And how great would he be, as the Culper Ring’s contact in New York?

At first, he was doubtful of himself. He didn’t want to add any more damage to an already dangerous situation, and Robert Townsend very clearly did not want him around. Somehow, that only seemed to add to Abraham’s curiosity.

Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Townsend hadn’t turned him in. He could have gotten himself quite the reward, could have seen Abe be dragged out of his life, forever ( _ensuring_ that the spy would never come back), and he _hadn’t._

Having been in the same position himself, a year back, Abraham recognized the symptoms of a closeted patriot; Robert believed in the cause, but had no will to fight for it. _That_ was what Abe needed to work on.

All Townsend needed was a little urging.

And that was precisely what he intended to do, when he went back to the inn.

_No rooms, we’re booked, get out-_

Yet, here they both were, with only a checkerboard between them. He’d swaggered in, confidently _(“do you play?”),_ knowing that he had his leverage _(“a little.”),_ knowing that his research on the man had provided him with a hell of a lot of information _(“that’s what good players always say, when they want to keep their opponent off-guard.”),_ knowing that he could convince Robert to join the Ring, if only he was given a chance _(“do_ you _play?”),_ and he had been completely and utterly thrown off, because Robert Townsend had done the exact same thing _(“a little.”)._

This was obviously not going to be as easy as he presumed it would be. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Robert had only let him off the hook because he spared some pity, maybe he didn’t believe in the revolution at all.

Abe forfeited the game with his outburst, his room was given away, and the entire evening had been a complete disaster, and-

“You are coming back?”

He stopped, slowly turning to face Robert, who’s eyes flitted from the officer that had walked in, before landing resolutely on Abe.

“To finish our game.” He clarified, folding his arms, in a somewhat smug manner. “I believe we said best out of three.”

Abraham, deeply puzzled and at a loss for words, merely walked out of the inn, the cold air slapping him in the face. Robert wanted him to come back.

With a small smile, he turned in the direction of where he had originally come from, where his irritable escort waited for him. He gave the man a playful salute.

“Ready to go, sir?”

Abe shook his head, his mind already flying through all the different tactics he’d use tomorrow; every move counted.

“No. Not tonight.”

He always had _loved_ a challenge.

+

Samuel Townsend was nothing like his son. Where Robert was cold and aloof, Samuel was warm and friendly. He was a good drinking partner. He was a great father.

It irritated Abe that Robert didn’t appreciate how hard Samuel tried with him- didn’t he know that some people longed for that kind of support, their entire lives?

Yes, Samuel’s views were wiggish, for a Quaker, but he cared about Robert. He believed in him. He encouraged him, and loved him. And, when it came to Abraham; Samuel Townsend provided more emotional support in the twenty or so minutes they interacted, than Richard had given him in twenty-six years.

 _“The sins of the father should not be visited upon the son,”_ Robert had said, the minute Abe brought up Samuel. _“You would agree, wouldn’t you?”_

He would.

+

In the end, he managed to get Townsend on his side. He always knew he could.

“You know, despite all that you say, I think you like me.” Abraham stated, surely, and he swore he saw the beginnings of a smile on Robert’s face.

“Maybe _a little.”_

For now, that was enough.

+

Back home in Setauket, a year later, Abraham was slipping.

His old flame had cozied up to the Major, and the fact that the advances from Captain Simcoe, the bastard, had not ceased, officially made her one of the most coveted women in the town. And, yet, Abraham knew that Simcoe never stood a chance. Hewlett looked at Anna like she had hung his moon, and she seemed to see stars in his eyes.

Who knew, maybe they would get the happily ever after that she and Abraham never had.

Despite his frequent escapes to the rendezvous points with Caleb, and the constant meet-ups with Robert, Mary was welcoming as ever, whenever Abraham returned. She’d kiss him tenderly, tell him about something Thomas had done, before taking him eloquently into their room and informing him about all the going-ons that he had missed.

It was the same routine, and one thing reigned consistent above all; his father’s disapproval.

After his consistent experience with Samuel, throughout the past year, going back to somebody who could hardly look him in the eye sincerely, was somehow even more devastatingly jarring than he imagined.

He knew by now, that Richard was aware of his stance on the war. It’s why he walked on eggshells around his father, because he had the potential to blow all of their covers.

“You need to stop playing with fire, Abraham.” Richard advised, folding his arms. “You’re going to end up getting burned.”

Abraham locked eyes with his father.

“Stop acting like you care about me.”

_“What?”_

“The only thing that you could possibly be even slightly concerned about, is your image. Don’t act like it isn’t true,” Abe added, seeing the indignation flashing in his father’s features. “If I get caught as a Patriot in York City, then word will spread and reach Setauket. Imagine the headline; _Son of Tory Magistrate, Arrested For Treason._ Doesn’t sound appealing, does it?”

“Abraham, you have absolutely no idea what the devil you're talking about.” Richard snapped, but Abe shook his head.

“I remember what you said, all those years ago. About how I remind you of my mother. While I will never be able to understand your pain, you will never be able to understand _mine.”_ He said, squaring his jaw. “All my life, I needed a father. Especially after Thomas’ death. But you were never there. In fact, you have always had such little faith in me, that not only do you constantly invalidate my thoughts and feeling, but you are still unable to admit that, all these years, you have been wrong.”

Richard, his face grave and expressionless, sat staring at Abraham, from his spot at the table. The house was quiet, the only source of sound being the howling wind.

“Is that what this is about? Is _that_ what it’s always been about?” Richard stood up, leaning against the table. “Your choosing of the rebel’s side? It’s all because I wasn’t there for you, as a child? Do not blame me for your messed up morals, Abraham. It’s not my fault that you turned out the way you did.”

The words were like a slap on the face. In Abe’s mind, he had always pictured this moment, the time in which he would pour his heart out to his father, and the two could finally set aside their differences and try and be civil and maybe even familial towards each other.

And, yet, both of them were too stubborn.

Deep in a part of his heart that he never bared to anyone, Abraham feared that he was too much like Richard. That he, too, would be like that with Thomas. It scared him stiff, and he vowed to himself that he would never let that happen.

+

“You know what I never understood?” Abraham suddenly said, one day, in the middle of another checkers game.

“How to accept the fact that you’ll never beat me?” Robert quipped, rhetorically. Abe rolled his eyes.

“You think you’re real funny, don’t you?”

“Not particularly, but _you_ do.”

Well, he had a point there.

“Anyways,” Abraham began again, pausing to eat one of Robert’s pieces. “What I never understood is why you asked me to come back, after that first game.”

Robert looked up from the board, caught off-guard by the question.

“I mean, I always assumed it was because I convinced you- but I left that inn completely positive that I had failed; why didn’t I? What swayed you?” Abe furthered.

“There’s something inherently wrong with being forced to do things, that go against our rights as human beings. It’s why I always hated monarchism.” Robert mused, and the other man watched him, intently. “That being said: king me.”

Abe looked down at the board, where the last of Robert’s uncrowned pieces had managed to get to his side. The smug Quaker motioned towards the stack of black pieces that had been taken from him. Abe placed one of them on top of the uncrowned piece, begrudgingly.

“You cheated.”

“ _You_ were distracted.” He countered, amusedly.

“ _You’re_ distracting.” Abe retorted, frowning as Robert ate his last piece.

“And you are a sore loser.” The Quaker replied, standing up from his chair and making his way to the dining room.

“Robert?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think we’ll win the war?”

He seemed to contemplate this for a moment, his dark brown eyes sweeping the place where he was working, nowadays.

“I think that anything’s possible, if you believe in it enough.” Robert answered. “But if you tell anybody I said that, I’ll deny it.”

_+_

They did win.

There were no more Loyalists or Patriots; there were only Americans, living in the United States. It was a surreal experience, and the minute that the Treaty of Paris was signed, the minute that the Revolution ended, for real, Abe sank down to his knees, overcome with an acute sense of emotion that he couldn’t describe accurately with words.

Next to him, Ben was screaming with delight, jumping up and down, waving a flag in the air. Caleb did the same, smiling and hugging and yelling, just as everybody around them did.

He turned just in time to see Anna kissing Hewlett, and despite the fact that latter had been on Britain’s side, he truly did seem happy about the occasion. Even Mary was letting out whoops of cheer. The euphoria was contagious, none of them could get enough.

His father was nowhere to be seen.

Abraham shook that thought out of his head, and turned his gaze towards a familiar tall head of chestnut hair, serving food for everybody who needed it. Of course that’s what Robert would be doing, instead of celebrating.

With a snort, Abraham made his way over to where he was, and pulled him aside.

“How can you be waiting tables at a time like this?” He demanded, motioning towards the windows.

“I was an innkeeper for the better part of my life, Woodhull, it’s what I do.”

Abraham leaned against one of the tables in the room adjacent to the one with all the people in it. The commotion had not wound down, everybody was just so excited to be _free-_ even people that Abe knew for sure were loyalists.

Robert looked out the window, smiling, and Abe couldn’t help smiling too.

“We did it.” He said, softly. Rob turned to him.

“I told you so.”

“Are you legitimately turning our independence from Britain into a way for you to claim you won me again?” Abe protested, stepping closer. “Because that’s just _not fair.”_

“Life isn’t fair.”

“It is now.”

They stared at each other for a minute, the magnitude of the the day’s events finally hitting them both.

“We don’t have a King to answer to, anymore.” Abraham noted.

“It’s gonna be pandemonium.” Robert shook his head, traces of fondness hidden in his exasperated expression, as he lowered his arms _(lowered his defenses)._

Abe lifted his chin up, slightly, his lips a fraction of an inch away from the other man’s.

“Good.” He said, before closing the distance between them.

+

Abraham Woodhull believed in a lot of things; his friends, the Culper Ring, the memory of his brother, the town in which he’d grown up with, the rebellion that, against all hope, prevailed.

Most importantly, he had somehow learned how to believe in himself.

After all, the only thing to do, in a world where you’re not free, is to become so consumed by your own personal liberty, that your mere existence is revolutionary.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i wrote 14k+ words about a fucking cabbage
> 
> tumblr: uranowitz  
> twitter: @falsettolands


End file.
